


For The Eye Sees Not Itself —

by Mintfawn (teafaun)



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Friendships, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/M, Link and Aryll are good siblings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Selectively Mute Link (Legend of Zelda), Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Wolf Link (Legend of Zelda), frankensteining up a bunch of lore, long fic, prophecies (or lack thereof), socially awkward Zelda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 07:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30051753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teafaun/pseuds/Mintfawn
Summary: When the reigning queen passes, a swift and premature death — unrest bubbles up. There is clamoring, a stifling grief. The predictions say peace — the queen’s death warns (must mean) otherwise. Zelda is four, just by a narrow slip of time, when this happens. When she sees her father weeping, sees his features harden into something more-grim, less-soft. Doesn’t understand — will come to understand.Barely four, and the uncertain fate of Hyrule is a great, encumbering weight tied around her neck. A burden — her duty.Or: the road to the manifestation of Zelda's powers is a long, winding one, but what (and who) she finds along the way makes the journey worth it.
Relationships: Aryll & Link (Legend of Zelda), Impa & Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	For The Eye Sees Not Itself —

**Author's Note:**

> The first thing I've completed enough to post; I am both excited and quite nervous! I would not have gotten this far without the encouragement of my lovely friends. Thank you, Beccabear93, Mimi, Naha — I don't know if I'd be writing if it weren't for you three. <3

There are no prophecies, ancient or current, tied to her birth.

Zelda _knows_ this, knows because she's checked (scoured) the archives, read each and every word, many times over — and there's no forewarned war, no plotted-out divine turmoil. All prophets (those living, freshly-dead, long passed) all inscribed the same: it is, _will be_ , a chapter of relative peace; supposed uninteresting times. But —

There's...a _pattern_. Wedged in deep, so ingrained it _must_ be heeded (prophesized or not—). 

The precursor to every grand upheaval in Hyrule's history is well-worn and unwelcome: the reigning queen gives birth, always to a princess, always passes too-soon after. A perpetual, jarring loss (she can _never_ be saved), an omen —

And the princess is always left too-young, is always left in the wake of tragedy. A victim of circumstance (the fate of her lineage). But always — by the age of sixteen (sometimes, _many_ times, younger) she comes into her blood-right: the ancestral, Hylia-blessed sealing power. Undiluted and raw, manifesting exclusively in the mothers and daughters of the royal family.

(Presumably ( _pure conjecture_ ) augmented by the death of the queen, death of the mother. The other edge of the blade, weighing heavy in hand —)

The rest plays out as it always has, stretching back thin into the distant past, ancient and repeating: there is always a motherless princess, powers manifested in full, always a hero pulled from nowhere, wielding the sacred blade of evil's bane. Always a well of evil — _usually the same source_ — glowering on the horizon, begetting an epic clash. Wherein the princess and hero banish, inevitably seal the darkness away.

(Until the seal cracks — as seals do. Until the cycle repeats. New dressings for the same unhealing wound, ever-weeping, a _fissure_.)

And just as the darkness wanes, unforgotten — so does the hero, remembered but unsung. A face receding, the sacred sword returned. But the princess persists, _must_ remain, divine gift and duty hers alone to carry. Her heritage in full.

But — the presumed truth of the matter dwells, hangs heavy and clings like woodsmoke. Prophecy or no prophecy be damned, the abrupt, unpreventable death of a queen is a harbinger of loss to come. A child-princess, who can't yet understand the weight of her own bloodline, the collateral.

So when the reigning queen (her mother) passes, a swift and premature death — unrest bubbles up. There is clamoring, a stifling grief. The predictions say _peace_ — the queen’s death warns (must mean) otherwise. Zelda (for every first-born, only-born daughter is _Zelda_ ) is four, just by a narrow slip of time, when this happens. When she sees her father weeping, sees his features harden into something more-grim, less-soft. Doesn’t understand — _will come to understand_.

 _Barely four_ , and the uncertain fate of Hyrule is a great, encumbering weight tied around her neck. A burden — _her duty_. Her father is a wasteless man, is thoroughly efficient; Zelda’s studies, her training, are immediate. And at first — 

Zelda sparks promise. Cottons on, fish-in-water. Is clever, bright-eyed ( _like her mother_ , she takes this compliment to heart). Seems apt to manifest the sacred sealing power, any day, month, _year_...

She’s ten when her progress peters out. When she stalls, dead-ends, but not for lack of toil. Eleven when she’s pushed _harder_ , is relentless in her training and studies.

Twelve when she realizes in full: that nagging, gnawing voice clawing at the back of her mind is _maybe right_ — that maybe...her father is disappointed in her (the thought weighs deep inside, in a small, hollow crevice, opening up). At thirteen, she reminds herself: those words of his, their _harshness_ , come from a place of good intention (of anxiety, the line of his brow weighing down heavy as he speaks). She self-soothes, tries harder —

When there is _still_ no progress, and she’s fumbling, ever-impeded, Zelda is ushered to the Spring of Courage. Prays to the enshrined goddess statue for a blessing. Turns fourteen halfway home, no different than before. _Utterly_ unchanged. Is fifteen when she makes the trek to the Spring of Power, where she appeals to the goddess statue, _please, please_... And must be luck-dry, making a misstep _somewhere_. She returns home, static as ever.

Zelda turns sixteen at home, nestled cozy in her own bed. _Sixteen_ — the supposed age of wisdom. Fittingly, she sets out the next morning, travels to the last of three: the Spring of Wisdom. Her last chance, last hope; she begs the goddess statue this time. Pleads, face hot, eyes stinging — _why, just why? Why is she…_

And Zelda returns, none the wiser. No long-craved manifestation of _anything_. Her father grows more-grim, less-soft... _desperate_.

Hyrule’s history is stretched-wide and pockmarked with divinity: endless, overlapping temples, enchanted, incessantly-lost items (always, _always_ revealed to, recorded by, the chosen heroes), minor deities prone to offering abundant blessings. Folded and refolded by time, spread thick when unfurled —

Days before she turns seventeen, her father acts upon his desperation. There are four minor divine springs, lore-but-not, four coveted light-bearing sentinels of Hylia’s making. Beacons against the darkest of days, molded by the same divinity carried within royal blood. Ancient, half-forgotten...

Zelda has little say, holds her tongue — is doubtful. Waning and... _exhausted_. But she sees the unease in her father’s eyes, the apprehension he buries inside held like a tight, knotted rope across his shoulders. _He’s trying_. So she must, too (as it is her duty). And —

Several months past seventeen, Zelda sets out once more (is cast away from home to chase boons). First to Lake Hylia, to the light spring of Lanayru — where, half-hearted, she asks for a blessing. Expects — _nothing_. And this time, receives... _something_. A blessing, an unclear message. Something that isn’t-hope, isn’t the semblance of unlocked powers blooming out. But it’s — _something_. 

(Zelda is — unsure, if she’s honest. Hesitating. Tries to hide it.)

In great haste — she next visits the light spring of Eldin, the spring bubbling up, skirting the edge of New Kakariko. Once more, Zelda asks. Receives: loose, hazy words, a blessing in full. She shifts (but not enough).

When she returns home this time, Zelda is spent, drained-to-the-bone. Wavers and sleeps for two whole days, sun-up to sundown. Wakes on the third day, bleary. Unrested, still. Pulls herself reluctantly from bed because she _should_ be rested enough.

It’s the middle of the third day, the sun hoisted high, pouring through the windows in thick slants, when Zelda overhears — eavesdrops, by complete accident — Impa and Urbosa (visiting, just for her) reproach her father. Firm and unyielding, even when speaking to the king, the two near-lecture him:

_...She’s exhausted; can’t you see? She’s been exhausted for a long time now…_

_Zelda_ needs _to rest, more than a few days. She deserves it. You know she does._

 _You can’t keep pushing her like this_ —

 _She has her duty as princess_ — _and you have yours as king. ...But you’re also her father._

_Zelda is your daughter. She is owed your kindness._

_...She wouldn’t have wanted this, wouldn’t want to see her daughter like this_ —

And Zelda leaves (face reddening, half-wobbly on her feet, somehow-silent). Clambers back into bed, curls in on herself. Wishes she could be entombed there, cloistered away under a sea of blankets. Far away from magic-imbued springs, and unawakened powers, her _duty..._

...Away from scrutiny, her father’s anxiety. His disappointment. 

Zelda nestles up into a tight coil under the blankets, squeezes her eyes shut, mind a slew of tangled-up, disconnected thoughts. Tires herself into an uneasy sleep. One that mellows out into a strange, welcome calm. Zelda dreams — a placid, undarkened sky, strikingly blue. The tickle of fresh-dewed grass, bright red apples catching sunlight. An orchard overlooking the wide expanse of a valley far below. A hand on her shoulder, fingers combing through her hair. A reprieve, Zelda escapes —

And wakes (too soon) back to reality. A bit more refreshed, still not enough. 

She feigns surprise when she’s greeted by Urbosa (who wraps Zelda up snug and tight in her arms), when Impa informs her: _rest, Zelda. You’ve earned this. You’ve worked hard enough for now_ —

(Pretends she doesn’t know her father buckled, relented only because the two eroded him into agreement.)

So Zelda rests: sleeps and reads and scratches small doodles into her sketchbook, skips rocks across the moat with Im. Sits in the gardens and breathes deep. Just... _exists_. But there’s still a hollow, carved-out space inside; a stillness, a denseness. Fear of disappointment — of _being_ a disappointment — whittled deep.

Two weeks in and long past the day’s sunrise, Zelda wakes, stomach churning into a massive knot, throat tight and sand-dry. She tries — truly, _desperately_ tries, but just can’t — be happy. Not today (despite everything). 

Regardless, she pulls herself from bed, prepares for the day. And she smiles. Because this is _meant_ to be (isn’t quite) a reward. Because she can’t disappoint —

Because it’s her birthday. Her eighteenth year, now. And it’s expected ( _another_ duty, unsaid) that on such a day, she is smiling, is grateful, humble — _is happy._

And Zelda _wants_ to be, tries to dredge up a flicker of...anything. Wants so badly to take advantage of the day. Because it’s been a long time since her birthday has been a celebration, a small personal thing just for her. Because the people she cares most about are there, grouped up in one place — 

Urbosa, Riju beaming at her side. Mipha, crowned zora princess; Daruk, ambassador of the gorons; Revali, renowned rito warrior (more political ally than friend). Purah, breaking from her research to visit (an honor, truthfully). Im, and ( _of course_ ), Impa —

Impa, who is placing a hand on Zelda’s shoulder, saying: “Well, Zelda, you’re officially no longer a child.” Voice thick with fondness, and she chuckles. 

Zelda nods once (keeps smiling). But her thoughts cloud over the din of her guests, consume her whole.

Two springs, two blessings. One week until she travels. And _afterwards_... It’s all a dark swirl in her mind, an uncertainty that rises up, and Zelda is cast in its shadow. It gnaws at her, heavy and hard and cold. A slab of riverbed clay sunk unceremoniously in the pit of her stomach. 

Zelda tries to quell her unhappiness. Crumple it up small, grind it into dirt beneath her heel (if only it were _that_ simple). The best she can muster is a promise: things will change next week. _She_ will change.

She must — has to. It is her duty.

**Author's Note:**

> Small note for clarity: there are two Impas, a mother and daughter, the daughter being referred to as Im. Impa is based more on Oot/SS/HW Impa and Im is based off of AoC/BotW Impa.   
> (I am not immune to making things more complex than they need to be —)


End file.
